I've Moved...to a New Blog

Dear John,

You've been such a good blog. But I think it's time for me to move on. I've found someone else. This was a difficult decision and I sincerely hope we can still be friends. We have been through so much together. I will keep you in my online scrapbook forever.

I'll always link you,
Sarah

P.S. If you'd like to keep in touch, I'll be here: My New Blog

Letting Go of Social Media

Let go of social media?! Yes, I know. We can't do that. We're not allowed. As writers, we must be on all the social sites to build our platform and brand ourselves and whatnot. But I'm letting go. Does that mean I'll have less success? Maybe. Maybe not. Probably. I'll miss out on opportunities if nothing else.

I read this post by Lisa Reiter and it resonated with me. She talks about being busy and organizing her writing. Pfft. Who needs that? With two young kids, a husband, a house, a job, appointments, meetings, blah, blah, blah, I have all the time in the world to sit down (uninterrupted) and write.

As the saying goes, "If you do one thing, it'll be your best. If you do two things, they'll each have a bit of your intent to do your best but they won't be your best. If you do ten things, they'll suck." Okay, that's not at all how the saying goes and I'm not sure there's a saying even remotely like that but you get my point. Hopefully.

If I do those ten things with a bag full of the fifty things I'm not doing sitting on top of my head, the ten things are going to really suck and I'll wind up hurting my neck. Something's got to give. And, if I look back and realize I haven't sent anything in yet for my column this month or worked on my book or submitted anything to...anywhere, then social media has to go.

Okay, I'm not getting rid of social media entirely, I'm just attempting to stuff it into a box and shove it in the corner. Social media is a rope. (I'm going somewhere with this. I swear.) Instead of throwing the rope to the ground and leaving it unattended or allowing it to lasso me, I have to take control of it. "Letting go" of this rope means untangling myself from it so it doesn't choke the life out of me but making sure it doesn't get soaked and moldy in the rain. Hence, the box in the corner.

The rope of social media shouldn't be a noose, it should be a lifeline.
A connection to my audience, potential editors, agents, and other writers.

The Rope of Social Media
(AKA a ball of string I found around the house)

Lisa says in her post that she has set aside a day (one day!) a week that she calls her "Blog Admin Day". In the post, she uses words like "addictive" and "compelled". I feel like that sometimes. Technically, she's talking about blogging but I'm applying it to all social media. I don't know if I can set aside one day to write my blog, read other blogs, comment, read litmags, research submission guidelines, catch up on my Twitter account... Seems a tall order. But I'll try. Because I need the rest of the week to do that thing I love to do with words like putting them together and making cool sentences (and fragments). I need time to write. Also, I'm on call 24 hrs. a day as a mom so there's that.

I'm going to attempt to organize my own Social Media Admin Day. Let's be honest: Days. I think I need two. For now.


How do you manage your social media? How do you get any reading/commenting in during the week? How you do have time to write?

Texting

I had something else planned for today but felt like sharing. Or, maybe, over-sharing. But who's judging?

This week on Twitter, for Friday Phrases, the prompt was "Submerged / Under the Sea". I wrote this:

The text had a location and six words 
that gave me the instant sensation I was submerged in icy water. 

"We just got in an accident."

This week, I wasn't telling a story in 140 characters or less. Well, I suppose, technically, I was but the story wasn't fiction. I received this text from my husband Thursday evening. The "we" in this text was my husband and my two children. I called him. He told me where they were and that he had to go because the ambulance was there. I had to drive. 15 minutes away. A quarter of an hour that, clichés be damned, felt like a lifetime. Shaking, scared out of my mind but paying close attention to the road (because the last thing we needed was another accident), I drove those fifteen minutes. Before I saw my children, I saw what was left of my husband’s car.

Then I saw them and ran. They were shaking, crying, burned, and bruised, but they were whole and alive and hugging me. 

It was a long night. Everyone was looked over in the ER as I hovered and fretted. It was crowded. The doctors and nurses kept us all together in one, little exam room. That simple act is something I am wildly grateful for. My husband’s burns were bandaged and all the x-rays were normal. No one was broken. Not physically. My 7-yr-old is still sleeping in our room. My 10-yr-old Aspie is working through this logically with what parts of the car were scattered on the road and what was and was not left in the car.

I could have lost my world, my entire world, a few days ago. I didn’t. I get that. But I could have. I have no words for the feeling I get when I think about it, which I’ve been trying like hell not to do.

So, although this was not my intent for today’s post, here it is. 

And here is this. The girl who almost killed my family ran a red light at full speed because she was looking at her cell phone—texting or playing a game or reading a map or I don’t give a damn. It’s simple. If you are looking at your phone, you are not looking at the road.

 

Networking: A Necessary Evil for Introverted Writers

I wrote a letter to my younger self as part of Carrie Butler and PK Hrezo's blogfest called
How I Found The Write Path .

  This letter is supposed to come from writers who now know what they're doing. Hmm. Some of this is write on (har) and I actually do have some experience and decent advice to give. But I have a long way to go on my path. I'm headed to a writer's conference this week (the same one I talk about in the letter, actually) and I realize networking is something I continue to struggle with. Let's see how this week goes. Here's to me not crying. Cheers! 

Networking: A Necessary Evil for Introverted Writers

Dear writing-is-the-only-thing-I’ve-ever-wanted-to-do Sarah,

Yes, yes, you’ve been writing stories since you could hold a pencil. Some are still in your scrapbook. Whatever. You have a lot to learn, love. I’ll concede that you’re young and naïve but that’s all you’re getting from me. Except advice. Which is this: get off yer ass.

Your “if I write it, they will come” attitude is helping you go nowhere. Sort of quickly. But wait! There’s more! If you act now, you will be a published writer. You won’t be paid mass amounts of money, but your writing will be out there, in the world, being read, by real people. Cool, huh?

When you’re about to leave your precious thirties, the decade you love so much, you make a decision that will lead to much crying and stress. Do it anyway and thank me later. That decision is horrifying to you and requires that you put yourself out there. Yourself and your writing. Don’t whine at me that you’ve sent amazing stories out sporadically only to have them rejected. Twenty submissions? Wow. That’s a crapload. Over thirty years? Not so much. Don’t argue with me that you’re trying—you’re not.

Being a writer is not a romantic skip through the daisies in a flowing gauzy gown. It’s a nasty trudge through the mud in pajamas. Uphill. In the rain. With wolves chasing you.

Okay, sweets, here’s the deal. Writing is a business. You have to do ghastly things like meet with people, join social media, go to conferences, and talk to agents. I’m sorry, I really am, but you have to…network. Are you okay? I’ll give you a minute.

At your very first conference, you will cry. In front of people. It’s pretty funny. Now, I mean. It’s funny now. I’m laughing with you not at you? Oh, never mind. And when an editor does not ask “Are you on Twitter?” but “What’s your Twitter handle?” you will get a reality slap because you are not on Twitter. You will then join Twitter. And you will cry. But this time it’s at home so no one will see you. Hugs.

The writing life is not about hanging in your yoga pants typing at your laptop with a cuppa. It’s real, dirty work. But you love writing, you need it, and that will keep you going—submitting, networking, and promoting. Those aren’t easy tasks for an introvert like you, but you can do it.

You know how to write. You’ve been writing for many years. You taught writing for many years. Pick your confidence up out of the dirt, dust it off, and put it back where it belongs. Ignore negativity. Also, please continue to ignore the rules of grammar and “good writing”. Throwing those rules out the proverbial window is crucial to keeping your voice.

 So there it is, love. Be your own bad self. Own your shit. Don’t give up. Use your voice. Be authentic. And, for the love of toads and crickets, ditch the doubts!

Onward,

Older, wiser, not-growing-old-as-gracefully-as-you-said-you-would Sarah

P.S. Please do try to develop a touch of that thing called patience. Look it up. Your editors might not get back to you for weeks. Some litmags, newspapers, and print magazines will take months. Some won’t respond at all. It's frustrating. Feel free to punch a pillow and throw some swear words around. It's not a temper tantrum, it's "venting". Totally mature. Just don’t yank your hair out—you’re getting older and you need it. The grey ones are fine. Get those ones. 

The Power of Growing and Gathering

Last year, I got out the shovel to dig up my lavender plants and throw them in the woods. They looked like giant dead spiders—thin, dry bare branches sticking out at all angles. Not a purple flower in sight. The summer before that, I only harvested a handful of stalks. These lavender plants were gone and I had to face it. But I couldn’t. I put away the shovel and watched them get buried under all the snow that fell on us this past winter (and spring).

My (pathetic) harvest

Why didn’t I get rid of them? Part of it, I’m sure, is because I love lavender. Maybe another part of me didn’t want to "kill" them. I wanted to be absolutely, positively certain they were already dead. I think another part might be my feelings about these plants. Weird, I know. And I’m just getting started.

I don’t garden. I understand that many people like gardening and find it relaxing. I don’t. I find it work. Hard work. I also have a notoriously brown thumb and cannot keep a house plant alive for more than a month.

A few years ago, I had healthy lavender plants producing fragrant purple flowers. The skinny stalks grew so tall, I thought they would break but they never did. They were strong. Teeny, tiny, purple flowers started opening, a shade deeper than the buds that hadn’t yet bloomed. And that smell…heavenly. Did I mention how much I love lavender?

I’ve always purchased dried lavender in shops but these were mine. I got to see them grow, water them, and harvest them. I enjoyed the process from start to finish. Reaching into the plants and picking a full stem of lavender, gathering them together, hanging bundles around the house to dry, filling a bowl with dried lavender.

Lavender!

When I pick fresh stems, my fingers are lavender-scented for hours. When I sit in the sun and gather stems together, tying them with string, I feel a connection to these things. (I said this was going to be weird.) When I hang bundles up, I appreciate the charming beauty of drying herbs. When I strip the stem of its dried flowers, I fill my special “lavender bowl” with fragrant buds and I completely zone out. The whole experience is so grounding, meditative, and rewarding.

A few days ago, I was playing in the backyard with my kids when I saw some purple peeking out from behind a whatever shrub (I have no idea what it is). I scurried back to my four little lavender plants and what to my wondering eyes should appear? Bright, beautiful flowers smiling at me. Don’t mock. It was a moment. I had a moment. I plopped on the ground in the middle of the plants and just kept picking stems until I couldn’t hold any more. I handed a bundle to my son and continued harvesting. It was like my own tiny miracle in the midst of the mess of a summer I’ve been having.

I have no real point here. Just sharing some joy. I hope you have some lavender bloom in your life soon.

One day's worth. More is blossoming out there...

Spiderman? Is that you?

I have a serious phobia. Tons of people are afraid of spiders, I know, but I think I’ve discovered a new form of this: Arachnohairophobia. The fear of spiders landing on your head and not being able to find them and the nasty things crawling around in your hair.

So we spotted a spider today. From across the room. It was BIG. I’m talking like quarter-sized. And fat. I didn’t want to go near it but I did not want to leave and come back into the room and wonder where the hell it was. So I sent my little one upstairs (we are careful to make sure my kids watch out for anthills so they don’t step on the ants by mistake) and I grabbed the nearest thing, which happened to be a cute animals coloring book, walked over to the spider and thwacked it. I swear, when that thing landed, it made an audible *plop*. A loud one. I have never actually heard that before. There was…stuff on the coloring book, too. Lots of it. And that frickin’ thing was just sitting on the chair like a dead body I’d have to wrap up and stuff in the trunk of my car. It was disgusting. It took seven tissues for me to pick the remains up and, even though I knew I had gotten the thing, I was compelled to run upstairs and take a shower. My skin was slightly pink and my scalp tingled in an unpleasant way due to my manic scrubbing.

My 7-year-old son takes karate. He’s awesome at it and I love that because I worried about him not doing well at sports. I am not extraordinarily athletic. I mean, I can drive and play Angry Birds and stuff but I’m not super strong or anything. But, when I see a BIG spider near me or I walk into a spider web (those frickin’ things are, like, invisible!) I could mop the floor with any of the kids in my son’s class. Don’t scoff—these are trained karate kids. Ones I would not have been able to take if it wasn’t for the spider-phobia thing.

I feel badly that my little boy heard me shriek (and quite possibly heard the spider hit the chair with that loud plopping), that I ran upstairs all flushed saying over and over to him how "Okay!" I was, and that he didn't eat lunch until after 2 PM because I just had to wash the non-existent spider out of my hair. I feel badly about all these things but sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do.

Forgiven

The wise and witty Geoff Le Pard commented on my Bite Size Memoir over at Lisa Reiter's blog. The topic was Childhood Illnesses and I wrote about my son.

Because he was a baby, we, as parents, had to make decisions for him as all parents do. But because he was sick, some of those decisions involved going to the hospital and being tested and having medical procedures. The last line of my flash memoir was remembering thinking that my son wouldn't forgive me. That is ridiculous, of course, because he was an infant. So, really, it was me. I questioned my decisions and got caught up in guilt and forgiveness.

So, back to the comment that Geoff made. It has been buzzing around my brain since he posted it. It is so rich and so true and so simple.  

"My experience for what it’s worth is they [children] forgive pretty much everything if you don’t burden them with your guilt."

If you yell at your kids, say 'no' when you probably should have said 'yes', miss their soccer game, forget to send their permission slip in for a school field trip, or lose their favorite stuffed animal, forgive yourself. Easier said than done. But you must. Because, chances are, your kids don't care half as much as you do. And, chances are, if you are riddled with guilt, you will burden them with it. Then, chances are, you will wind up with a child who doesn't forgive because he is constantly being reminded of this awful thing you did. But, chances are, if you don't continue to remind them and apologize for the next ten years, they will forgive and forget.  

Rage, Rage Against the Building of a Blog

Writing a letter to myself as a part of this awesome blogfest, How I Found the Write Path, really made me think about how much I didn't know, how much I thought I knew, and how much I still have to learn.

I quickly typed out a letter to myself about networking and how it is a necessary evil. It's not evil for every writer, of course, but for me. I am an introvert. That's being kind. But I learned that I had to put myself out there. It was horrifying.

Talking to people. Going to conferences. Joining social media. Promoting myself. 

Words like "Social Media" and "Platform" and "Brand" assaulted my poor, sensitive introvert ears. I didn't know exactly what these things were but I knew enough to know I didn't want to do any of it. I just wanted to hide in my room with a cup of tea and type away whatever characters were bugging me at the moment to be written about. Or slump in my chair with a glass of wine and write about a real-life scene that just happened at my house. 

Something I heard a lot about was blogging. "You have to have a blog." Ah. I knew more about blogs so this one was easier. No. I would not blog. Never frickin' ever. No.

Then, after much crying and complaining, I started a blog. And I read about blogging. "This is how you blog." "This is NOT how you blog." "This is how you get more followers on your blog." "You're blogging the wrong way." "You're not using all the tools available to you for your blog." Blah, blah, blog, blog.

I almost erased myself. Sounds menacing, eh? I made a list of all the sites I was on and systematically deleted accounts. I had been on Twitter for only a month and I hovered over the 'delete account' button. Kidding. What I really did was search in vain for how to delete myself and couldn't find it. Also, Facebook wouldn't let me delete myself for some reason. I'm still waiting for it to go away. And then I turned to my blasted blog and was two seconds away from deleting that, too.

Of course, since I'm blabbing at you here, that didn't happen. I'm writing and posting. I have a blog. I'm not sure how I feel about it but I have one. And it keeps me writing weekly regardless of what's going on in my life. I blog. I'm getting out there. Sort of.


Why do you blog? Why did you start? Did someone tell you you had to or did you decide to do it yourself? Do you enjoy it? 

The Day I Decided To Dye

I am participating in Diane DeBella’s I Am Subject project. This project showcases women's stories about when or how they reclaimed their lives. There are many stories, many voices. Here is my #iamsubject story:

When I was young, I was blond. 

A pretty, little schoolgirl with pigtails and blue eyes. My grandmother’s “doll”, my mother’s only daughter, my teachers’ cute student, my ballet instructor’s graceful dancer. They loved to see me happy. So I smiled. 

I tried to be the girl they saw.

As I grew, my hair did, too. Long. Stick straight. Still bright blond. I was cast in the lead of the elementary school play, placed front row center in my class picture in a different color chair than all the other kids, thrown into spotlights when all I wanted was to hide in the shadows. I was confused and shy. People seemed to like me that way. So I stayed. 

I tucked my discomfort away.
 
As a teenager, the “dumb blond” stereotype brought some twisted form of admiration. It got me invited to the cool parties and landed me a job as a beer girl. I earned a great hourly wage laughing and handing out t-shirts, koozies, and blinking buttons to bar-hoppers. So I acted. 

I tanked my grades and found acceptance in stupidity.

In a moment of defiance, during which I realized my life was not mine, I dyed my hair brown—a tiny slice of time, a small act of defiance. I saw this as so much more. It was me rebelling against everything people thought I was and wanted me to be. 

I wasn't that girl anymore.

Reactions ranged from disbelief to disapproval. Family was shocked. Friends asked why I would get rid of my blond hair. People told me I used to be pretty. My soon-to-be-ex said it looked awful. 

I had never felt more beautiful.  

Then I met my perfect. He had everything I could have dreamed of plus a bit more. I became pregnant and stopped coloring my hair. I expected bizarre-looking roots to start showing. My blond growing in. I was going to be a pregnant skunk. I laughed at the thought. But I swore I would get rid of the blond the minute I got home from the hospital.  

I didn't have to.

My hair grew in a different shade—shiny, beautiful…brown. I had my son. A gorgeous boy with brown hair and blue eyes who looked exactly like his mother. As many new moms do, I spent countless hours staring at my new baby. He tugged at something deep within me. The child I never got to be. The mother I wasn’t sure I could be. 

I had watched women disappear into motherhood, losing themselves in the responsibility of raising a child.

The thing that might have taken away my sense of self broke me out of the shell I had lived in and gave me the self I wasn’t aware I was searching for. The baby, who forced me into the role of mother, helped me define who I was as a woman. Someone I didn’t know. Someone I liked. 

A smart, strong, sarcastic, loving brunette. 

Marytr Mom

I swore I'd never be a martyr mom.

When the gorgeous purple streak faded from my hair and my feet looked like they belonged to a hobbit, I brushed it off. "It's only a streak." "It's just a pedicure."

When I started cancelling appointments for myself but keeping the ones for my children, I explained it away. "The kids need haircuts. I can throw my hair up in a ponytail." "The kids have to go to the dentist. My teeth are fine."

When the slow decline of my hygiene become undeniable, I hung on for dear life. "He had soccer, I didn't have time to shower." "He had karate, I didn't have time to shower." "The house was a mess, I didn't have time to shower." Geez, woman! Clean yourself!

Okay, so I've had the occasional martyr moment, not getting a haircut for 3 months 7 months but making sure my kids went every few weeks. Buying the boys new socks, sneakers, and pajamas while I jammed my feet into smelly, dingy Sketchers.

But, after two weeks of being sick, and losing my voice completely, I still hadn't seen a doctor. I decided I should go and, three days later, when it was convenient for everyone else (my husband took the kids out), I went.

"How long have you had a sore throat?" the doctor asked.

"Two weeks," I squeaked.

So my "cold" turned out to be a double ear infection, bronchitis, and sinus infection.

"You shouldn't have waited," he said.

"I have kids..."

Noooooo!

I said it. Can't take it back. I can yell (when I get my voice back) that I am NOT a martyr mom but really all I can say after what happened last week is:

"HELL, YEAH I AM!"

I'm a full-on Martyr Mom.

How about you? Are you a martyr mom? 
(Or dad...?)

Losing My Voice and Gaining Perspective

So now that spring is finally truly here with the sunshine and warm weather, I got sick. Whatever. Head cold. It will be over in a few days. No big. 

That didn't happen. Here's what did.

Sparing you the gory details, I've had this bloody thing for over a week and now have lost my voice. Saturday was kinda cool. I was walking around with sick voice. You can't duplicate that so I figured I'd take advantage of it, you know, doing Darth Vader impressions and recording "Redrum. Redrum!" on my phone. It was wicked fun. Which tells you a little about my life.

But yesterday...I woke up and couldn't speak.

Oh, yeah. It's all fun and games until someone loses a voice.

As I was scribbling away on a notepad for my husband and kids, I realized how quickly I speak. My hand simply couldn't keep up with my thoughts. It was infuriating. I started flailing around and, of course, nobody could figure out what I was trying to mime. I'm very bad at charades. I quit talking, writing, and miming.

Then I noticed something.

The house, my house with my husband and two little boys was quiet. I know my husband asked them to keep it down so I could rest, but, seriously. Quietness was invading my house like a noxious gas. It was weird. Creepy, even. I hate when my kids get hyper and loud. Those two small kids can sound like a herd of stampeding buffalo. It's bad. Oh, the noise, noise, noise, noise!

But I realized how much my own voice (raised over the din) adds to the noise here. This is something that probably, in retrospect, should have been obvious to me but, alas, here I am writing about my epiphany.

My house (without my constant "settle down", "calm down", "keep it down") was a quieter place. I am a contributor to the noise that I hate. Also, my mind races and I pretty much say what's on my mind.

To summarize, I lost my voice and realized I need to slow down and be quiet.

Try not talking for an hour. Just one hour. (Maybe 20 minutes.) What happens? Are you frustrated? Relaxed? What about the other members of your house? Are they quieter or louder without your direction?

Mother's Day Dilemma

There are two schools of thought regarding Mother's Day:

• I am spending every second of this day with my children.  
• I wouldn't go near my kids today if you paid me!

A) It's Mother's Day. That's me! I'm a mother. And I want to celebrate motherhood by being with my kids-- playing games with them, talking to them, going out to eat with them, and hugging them. A lot. After all, my children are the reason I get to celebrate this day in the first place.

B) This is my day. I am going to soak in a bubble bath, pick up the book I've been meaning to read for two months, drink a glass of wine on the porch, and relax. After all, it's a day meant for me so someone else can take care of the kids and house today.

For some, this is a simple decision. For others, we bounce between the two options.

Notice the "we"? Because I'm one of those moms who want a little from column A and a bit from column B.

I want to be around my kids. I want to play cards or Candy Land with them. I want to play win at Wii. I want to look at old photos and see how much they've grown. I want my annual handmade crayon cards with hearts and flowers and smiley faces all over them.

I also want to be a little spoiled. I'd love to get a massage or a pedicure. Some sushi and a nice glass of Pinot Grigio would be wonderful, too. Sitting outside, alone, listening to the birds chirp and just relaxing, is a beautiful way to spend the day.

Here's what I did. I dipped my little toe into column B by having my husband take care of the crappy things like cleaning toilets, making lunches, sweeping crumbs, wiping noses, and telling two hyper, screaming boys to calm the hell down! All this while I slept in late, read a good book, sipped some Sam Adams Summer Ale, and took a long shower during which I actually shaved my legs and used that incredible strawberry sorbet scrub that's been staring at me from my bathroom counter since December.

And then I embraced a bit of column A. I hugged and kissed my kids. I told them stories they'd heard before about when they were little. I teared up quite a bit. I felt my heart grow like the Grinch's when I opened the cards they drew for me. I played games with them and read to them and spent some time outside enjoying the day with my them. I wrote them letters telling them how stinking awesome they are.  

That was a good mix for me. A very happy Mother's Day.

Where are you? Firmly in column A? Column B? Somewhere in the AB area? What did you do for Mother's Day?

Magic Mess in Two Days Flat

One of my kids lives like a pig. Except that I think pigs are actually pretty clean and so that's not nice to the piggies. His room is disgusting. Thing is, it always has been. And I've always been "helping" him clean it. Then, two days later, I'm all "La-la-la!" (because I really do sing while I'm walking around my house) and I walk by his room. Then I back up and stare and my jaw drops all dramatically. Frickin' seriously?! What happened?

I wait and plot and hide, ready for the ambush. He gets home from school and I attack. What the heck happened to your room? How could that happen in two days? I couldn't make a mess like that if I tried! And so on. He is not rude about this (like me) and simply looks perplexed. Sometimes he looks like is-this-going-to-cost-me-Minecraft-time? But that's it. He doesn't care. At all. 

Meanwhile, my little neatnik son is freaking that there's a layer, a layer, of dust on all his furniture. And his floor has *gasp* LINT on it. Lint and FUZZ! Aah! What kind of mum am I anyway, he'd like to know. No, he wouldn't. He's a good boy. I'd like to know it. Why am I spending all my time on one child who doesn't give a rat's tail what his room looks like while ignoring the child who would simply like his bookshelf dusted thank you very much. 

My 7-yr-old keeps his room immaculate. He likes it that way. He needs his environment to be in order. And clean. But I'm so tired from helping my 9-yr-old clean his mess that I only half-heartedly help my little one who asked ever so politely (sometimes "with a cherry on top") for some dusting and vacuuming. 

So, to my 9-yr-old who can magically conjure up a pile of trash, dirty clothes, snotty tissues, books, and Lego pieces in less than an hour, then dump them on every available surface of his room--NO help for YOU!

NO help for YOU!

Have you ever reached the point where you simply refuse to clean 

(or help clean) your kid's room?

Practicing Your Craft with Terrible Writing

Ever see a movie in which someone dances really badly? You think to yourself, “Geez, that girl has got to know how to dance well to dance that badly.”

Author Allison Hawn had a prompt on her blog challenging us to write a terrible opening line. I tried. (That line up there ^ is not it.) Here it is: 

The waiting room smelled like cheap air freshener, fake rose and sickly sweet vanilla, mixed with the lingering scent of hopelessness as Tiffany and Pierce sat separated by loathing and distrust on a blue, faded couch.

Writing that crud was fun. But here’s what I was thinking as I typed my trashy first line: “Wow. This is difficult.” Or something along those G-rated lines. It’s like purposely putting your shoes on the wrong feet, or combining hummus, chocolate syrup, and lima beans for lunch.

Being mindful of crafting something horrible is good for you and your writing.

You’re breaking rules. Whether those rules are the writing world’s or your own isn't the point. You’re intentionally typing things that make you cringe. And not in a good way. You are consciously paying attention to what it is that you consider “bad”—flowery description, flat dialogue, useless filler, my blog—so you can avoid these things the next time you sit down to write your fiction, nonfiction, or poetry.

Whatever “bad writing” means to you, do it. Write some. It’s not as easy as you think.

Most of us have practiced active voice, realistic dialogue, showing not telling. But how many of us have practiced this? Here's my motivational, inspirational thought to get you typing terrible prose...

The journey of a thousand stories begins with one word. 

Writer Unplugged: Why I Didn't Delete My Blog

I’ve been beating myself up wondering whether I should delete my blog. Frankly, I’ve been contemplating deleting my Facebook (which has this side of 10 likes and I rarely use) and my Twitter account (which is relatively new and I don’t have the hang of yet). I know having an online presence, platform, brand, whatever has become essential but at what cost?

Last weekend, I realized I hadn’t written anything but a tweet since I’d opened my Twitter account. Not a word. Except my blog. But, see, I’m not a “blogger”. I have a blog but I’m not a blogger. I do not help people with my expertise, entertain people with my comedic essays, or interact with people about controversial subjects. The bloggers I’ve seen online edit and hone their often lengthy posts on their gorgeous background of a blog. They network and are part of a blogging community. They are artists. I just write.

I thought, “What's the point? Get rid of it.”

After reading this post by Cat Lumb about having a first draft become the thing you like best of all and keep instead of the subsequent edits, I realized why I love my blog so much and couldn’t delete it. I commented on her post that “first drafts have an amazing combination of raw emotion and the writer’s real voice. Which [is what] I want to read. And hear.” There it is. My blog is always a first draft. Maybe because I write it for fun, maybe because I know no one is reading it…I type and post. Done. It’s freeing, in a way, to be able to dance like no one is watching. I type like no one is reading. (Which is true, but whatever.)

I love writing my blog. No one reads my posts, as I am sure no one will read this one, but at least I am writing. You're supposed to have a target audience (I'm well aware of this as a teacher) but I don't. My blog is more of an online journal than a pro blog. Thing is, I want to write. I need to write. So I write—about my life, my kids, anything. It feels good and it keeps me on a schedule to make sure I keep writing.

And, because I just type whatever is on my mind then post it, it is me. This is me. Writer unplugged.

A Day of Green…That’s All

I never really celebrated St. Patrick's Day.

I remember wearing green to school when I was little. My mom would sometimes put my hair up in two, long blonde pigtails and tie green ribbons around them. Other than that, I don't think I did anything out of the ordinary on that day. Although...I seem to vaguely remember a green Care Bear with a shamrock on his tummy that I paid special attention to that day. Maybe I brought him to school? I also could be making that up or confusing it with another popular 80s toy that was green and had a shamrock somewhere on it.

I also thought Leprechauns were neat. Little magical people with rainbows and gold? What's not to like? I colored my share of them with green jackets and tiny black top hats.

Oh, yes, and the school cafeteria handed out our milk cartons (which looked normal) with no indication that, when you finally got the damn thing ripped open, the sloshing liquid inside was a putrid pea color. It tasted like milk but, honestly, gross.

That must have been the precursor to the green beer I was always served on St. Patrick's Day if I was stupid enough to join the mob of if-I-drink-enough-maybe-my-puke-will-be-green guests visiting the bars every March 17.

Green beer...yummy.

This is a decidedly Christian holiday celebrating, um, what’s his name. That saint. But, like many holidays, it has long since been celebrated as a secular feast and drink-fest. So, regardless of your religion, on March 17, everyone is Irish, wears green, and loves beer.

Kids cut out shamrocks and wear green. Adults drink beer and wear green. And, well, that’s kind of it.